


hold onto love (it'll bring you home)

by NoScrubs12345



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoScrubs12345/pseuds/NoScrubs12345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if things had gone differently in London? What if Jack and Ianto traded Torchwood for a quite little cottage by the sea? But what if things aren't as they seem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold onto love (it'll bring you home)

Outside the cottage is a patch of lavender. It colours the ground a soft, gentle purple, its intoxicating scent heavy on the breeze the day keys change hands and they can finally call the house theirs.

When they move in—a melee of cardboard boxes and mismatched furniture—Ianto sings along to the small radio sitting just inside the entry way. It’s music to Jack’s ears and he can’t help but smile as the young man looks so carefree, so happy, so much his age. Jack joins in, more humoured hindrance than help. But two heads are better than one, four hands better than two, and they are home if not quite unpacked.

 

The cottage is lonely without a dog or cat basking in the warm sun spilling in from the bay window, and almost seems too small without the laughter and soft footfalls of children, but that, Jack knows, is a conversation for another day.

 

As night falls, they lie on a hastily made bed, sheets silky and lavender breeze cool against their skin as they drift somewhere between sleep and wakefulness in each other’s embrace, finally free of Torchwood and its ever constant threat of destruction and loss.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The first morning in their new home, Jack watches Ianto sleep as the dawn blooms. He loves the way the warm light spills over his lover’s skin, lending him an almost god-like glow. But, Jack thinks, the man slumbering beside him is more beautiful than anything ever to descend Olympus. Surely the gods, in their envy, would steal from him this beautiful man he doesn’t quite deserve but couldn’t live without?

The light flirts with the sheets and, in turn, Ianto’s skin, giving him a golden glow in the morning light. Jack’s breath catches and he can do nothing but kiss pale pink lips, adorable button nose, dark eyebrows, cheeks wonderfully scratchy with yesterday’s stubble, before kissing his lips once, twice more. He chuckles softly as Ianto turns into him, mumbling dreamish nonsense as his left hand grasps in vain for his right. Jack takes his hand and leans down for another gentle kiss.

He smiles when Ianto sighs contentedly, stealing just one more kiss, and settles carefully under the blankets so as not to disturb his lover. He rests his head against Ianto’s chest, the beat of his heart both lullaby and reminder of what hasn’t yet been lost.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

In the back garden is a rose bush, feeble and barely clinging to life. Among the brown and speckled leaves is a tiny pink bud trying its damnedest to bloom. Sitting in front of the bush in the midmorning sun, knees drawn up to his chest and a grim, determined look on his face, is where Jack finds Ianto. He sighs and crosses the small garden when Ianto barely glances up at him before turning back to the plant. He sits beside him with the crack of a knee and wraps an arm around his shoulders, revelling almost giddily in the closeness as Ianto leans into him.

“It could be beautiful,” Ianto whispers.

Jack turns to kiss the tip of his nose, smiling softly when Ianto gives him a look. “Who says it isn’t?”

“I guess it is in its own way,” Ianto says, resting his head on Jack’s shoulder. He takes Jack’s hand in his and brings it to his lips. “I want to help it. Make it better.”

Jack rests his head against Ianto’s, turning to press a kiss to his forehead. “You’re good at that,” he whispers against his temple, not referring to his lover’s gardening skill.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Wedgwood china had been a gift from his mamgu, Ianto tells him with a sigh, when he moved back to Cardiff after Canary Wharf. They both ignore the way he trails off before mentioning Lisa and continue with the unpacking with only the clearing of a throat and reassuring squeeze of a hand.

Jack watches Ianto move off to start dinner, only looking away when his lover disappears into the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans adding to the din of cardboard angrily scratching against cardboard. He turns back to the boxes and gingerly starts removing the rest of the plates.

It’s then he notices the small cracks and tiny chips adorning them. He runs his fingers down and over them, frowning when they remind him of his lover. The chips are the nicks in the armour Ianto wears to face the world, the small chinks left by those either unknowing or uncaring. The cracks are his father and Lisa and Jack himself. He isn’t arrogant or selfish enough to think he hasn’t hurt him.

And he hates how he knows he’ll do it again someday.

A day far away, he hopes, and hastily turns towards the cabinet.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The salmon is just this side of too dry, as is the wine, and they eat if off the chipped plates. They sit on the floor, knees occasionally brushing, the CD player adding background noise to the sounds of chewing and forks clinking against porcelain.

As they eat, they scoot surreptitiously closer until thigh presses against thigh, forearm against forearm. With the last bite eaten, Jack reaches around Ianto’s shoulders, pulling him in for a long, slow kiss that says more than he could ever put into words. The unspoken _I love you_ in Ianto’s eyes when they pull away is unmistakeable and Jack knows it’s reflected in his own.

As the song changes—Norah Jones singing about her well-deserved Wurlitzer prize—Jack sets the plates aside and stands. Ianto takes his proffered hand with a soft smile and lets himself be pulled to his feet and into Jack’s arms. They sway to the music, in turn pressing lips to familiar skin and simply enjoying holding and being held.

Norah’s voice washes over them and they hold each other that bit tighter, both knowing one day Jack will be left to his memories and heartache and his own Wurlitzer prize.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They make love that night, long and slow and _right there_ and _feels so good_ , with the window half-open. Moans and sighs of completion disappear in the soft patter of rain against the glass and greenery beyond, the hint of breeze that manages to creep inside caressing skin in mimicry of lips and fingers only moments before.

When Jack pushes off of him, Ianto moans at the loss and turns into Jack’s side, ignoring the sticky mess that is his stomach to press against him. Jack smiles softly to himself and presses an almost reverent kiss to Ianto’s forehead before tucking his head under his chin. He feels more than hears Ianto’s sigh of contentment and wraps a protective arm around him as their legs entwine.

He knows they should shower or make some sort of effort to clean up, but the allure of sleep as his heartbeat returns to normal is too much and Ianto’s body too warm, his weight too welcome and too comfortable beside him.

Outside thunder rumbles as pewter clouds begin to move in, a chill tingeing the breeze. As Ianto reaches for the blanket one handed, Jack knows tonight he’ll finally rediscover contented sleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“I hate beige,” Ianto says and the glare he gives the walls makes Jack snort with laughter.

“It’s not funny,” he adds, turning the same look on Jack.

His nose is adorably scrunched and Jack doesn’t resist the urge to press a quick kiss to the tip. The playful punch to the arm it earns him and the quirky half-smile Ianto can’t quite hide draws another chuckle from his lips.

“It is a bit...depressing,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around Ianto from behind. He rests his chin on his shoulder, whispering, “What colour are you thinking?”

“I dunno,” Ianto says just as quietly, leaning into him. “Any thoughts?”

“How about pink? Or blue?” Jack says slowly, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. When Ianto doesn’t stiffen in his arms, he adds, “Maybe yellow or a nice wallpaper? Or we could pick a theme?”

Ianto is silent for a long moment and, when he turns, his face is unreadable.

“Maybe we don’t have to decide on a colour just yet then,” he whispers, eyes softening and a soft, sheepish smile breaks across his face.

Jack’s face splits with a grin and all he can do is pull Ianto close.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They lay in the warm afternoon sun, grass soft beneath them and the cloud filled sky above a peaceful patchwork of bright blue and fluffy white.

Ianto rests with his head pillowed on Jack’s stomach, drifting in blissful half-wakefulness, Jack’s fingers massaging his scalp and running almost reverently through his hair. He shuffles, trying to find the most comfortable patch of grass, and Jack shifts his gaze from the storybook sky.

Ianto’s eyes are closed, his face turned into the sunlight, and if the smile the man brings to his face is just shy of sappy, Jack doesn’t care.

He glances back up at the sky as a cloud moves over the sun, momentarily darkening the garden, and the memory it brings with it draws a fond laugh. It seems a lifetime ago, when the grief was still too fresh and they were three clinging together instead of two escaping, with giant cameras and clouds made of candy floss.

Ianto opens his eyes when he feels Jack’s stomach shake beneath him.

“Do I want to know?”

“Just a memory,” Jack says, laughing again as Ianto jokingly rolls his eyes, both grateful the memory wasn’t one tainted by loss.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The sky is made of diamonds.

The phrase brings with it a shudder, but Jack can see the truth in it when he gazes up at the night sky. Out here, with no one around for miles and no city lights to pollute the sky, the stars shine with all the luminosity of a pregnant diamond mine. The sight brings with it a certain homesickness and roguish lust for adventure, but here, sitting outside a cottage by the sea with Ianto’s arms wrapped protectively around him, is where he belongs. In this time, with this wonderful man, without a worry in the world, the only burden on his shoulders the knowledge that five years or fifty with him won’t ever be enough. If only he could somehow slow time....

“Jack,” Ianto whispers near his ear, snapping him from his reverie, “let it go.”

Jack turns in his arms to stare into his eyes, leaning forward into a kiss the same time as Ianto, and tries to push aside thoughts of future pain.

“I’ll take you out there someday,” he says quietly, settling back into Ianto‘s warmth and comfort. “I promise.”

“Right here is the only place I want to be.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Inside the tiny velvet box are two rings made of silver. One lies slightly on top of the other, precariously balanced and in a distorted symbol of infinity. Jack would think it fitting if he could think at all, because the sight of Ianto down on one knee, box open and ocean blue eyes staring up at him with _fear_ and _desperation_ and _hope_ and, more precious than anything else, _love_.

A million thoughts race through Jack’s head—how ‘til death do us part is a taunt, knowing how horribly his heart will break, wondering how time will take its terrible toll, and how can he possibly protect his heart now? But the thought that stands out is that he no longer cares about such trivial things. His fate was sealed that first night in Cardiff.

He nods twice and sinks to his knees, one hand going behind Ianto’s head to pull him in for a kiss full of everything he can’t bring himself to say.

Both their hands shake when Ianto takes one ring and slips it onto Jack’s finger before Jack does the same. They fall into each other’s arms, knowing that this is only just the beginning.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He _doesn’t_ wake with a sob. He no longer has the energy for it, just like he doesn’t for the dampness resolutely _not_ on his pillow.

He turns onto his other side, facing the wall, ignoring the wet spot on the pillow and the tears he _isn’t_ crying. He closes his eyes tightly, trying to block out the light seeping in around the curtains as dawn breaks. He knows if he looked outside, the twin suns rising over a field of magenta grass would be beautiful. But he doesn’t have the will to leave the bed and cross to the window. Besides, it wouldn’t compare to a lone sun rising over Cardiff, brightening the bedroom they had shared for too short a time.

There are countless songs in every culture he knows about turning back time and giving suns and moons and stars to one's lover. But, he thinks with a shuddering sigh, what do songs know? The allure of reversing time is almost too great most days and he gave him more than the stars—he gave him his heart knowing it would eventually be broken.

And what he wouldn’t give just to hold him for one moment more....


End file.
